The Woman at the Well

The key slid silently into the lock. It was too early to be up but too late to go to bed.  I could smell stale booze on my shirt, and hoped Chase was asleep.

“Hi Mom, I missed you last night.”  Busted.

The sleepy 11-year-old voice sliced through me like a machete on a jungle trail. I told myself eleven years old was old enough but in my heart I knew better. But “desperate times call for desperate measures.” I had heard that once and clung to it when I couldn’t live with myself. Last night was one of those “desperate times” that kept me going back to the well. But alcohol didn’t erase it.

“Was this your dinner, Baby?” I grabbed the open bag of cheddar cheese flavored chips and pushed one into my mouth. The briny, cheesy, powdery coating on them soothed my taste buds and momentarily distracted me from the guilt. They were addicting and I kept eating.

“Yeah. But I had some cheese too. I remember you said I should have something with protein in it.” Sure enough, there lay the cheese next to the chip bag. Protein wasn’t a bad idea so I cut a piece off the block. “Wanna piece of cheese, Chase?”

“No thanks.” His voice trailed away and I heard the TV click on.

I reached in my pocket and pulled out my reward. Three crisp $100 bills. The sight of them nauseated me. I told myself it was a tradeoff, that it would pay for a week’s worth of groceries and gas for us. Tips had been low last night, even though I was filling in for the bartender.  I had to do something, so I did. He walked in 30 minutes before closing and made me an offer I couldn’t afford to refuse.  

I took a bite of the room temperature cheddar cheese and with the first taste, I knew this was the real deal, not an orange powder on a chip, pretending to be cheese. I grabbed another chip anyway, but they had lost their luster. It felt like my life, that powdery, salty, fake cheesy chip. Suddenly, I was thirsty. Thirsty for the well again.  I knew it wasn’t a permanent solution, but if it dulled the pain for a minute…

“Baby, I’m gonna jump in the shower and head over to the bank. I have to get my cleaning done before 7:00 this morning. I’ll be back before you get on the bus.” I yelled into the next room, mostly because I didn’t want to see his face when I told him.

The shower washed me clean on the outside, but the inside still felt the same. I left my hair wet, threw on clean jeans and a T-shirt and headed out the door.

I pulled into the parking lot and saw Mr. Willoughby’s car. Sure enough, his office light was on, as it often was early in the morning. I smiled to myself because he always had a kind word. When he spoke to me, I felt clean. He didn’t know me by name, but he treated me the same way he treated all the other bank people. The ones who had money and husbands and respectable jobs and cars that weren’t 15 years old. And guilt. The ones who didn’t have guilt.

I started in Mr. Willoughby’s office. He was engrossed in something on his computer so I spoke quietly, “Hi, Mr. Willoughby. Would you like me to vacuum or dust in here today?”

“Good morning, Janie. How are you?”

He knew my name?

“You don’t need to do anything in my office today. You’re looking a little tired. I’m going to get myself some coffee; can I grab a cup for you? Do you take cream or sugar?”

He was serving me?

I held the warm coffee in both my hands trying to quell the sudden shakes I felt.

“Janie, do you have children?”

He cared about my kid? My cheek felt wet and I swiped at a tear.  I told Mr. Willoughby about Chase; how he loved baseball and how his blue eyes sparkled, how he was as smart as any other kid in his class and how he wanted a puppy.

“Let me give you something to help out with Chase. My wife and I like to help out where we can, and I know she would want me to give this to you. Now, this is not a loan. It’s a gift so that means you can’t do anything to earn it and you can’t pay it back. Deal?” And he pulled out three beautiful, clean $100 bills.

He wanted to give me something with no expectation of repayment? “Please no, Mr. Willoughby, I don’t deserve it.” I realized I was crying but I couldn’t stop.

“Janie, this gift isn’t based on whether you deserve it. It’s based on my ability to give it to you. I choose to give it to you, no matter what you’ve done, no matter where you’ve been, no matter what guilt you’re carrying. I choose. All you have to do is reach out and accept it.”

I started babbling about how I had been eating powdery, salty potato chips and going to the well, and now this was the real thing, and I didn’t want my life to be full of fake powder anymore, and I only wanted real cheese for me and Chase. Strangely, Mr. Willoughby seemed to know exactly what I was talking about.

“Janie, Jesus is the real cheese, and all the things you do to try to make it right are the fake cheese powder. It tastes pretty good until you eat the real thing. The things you do to get money, the time you leave Chase by himself, the late nights you spend going to the well...fake powder. Jesus knows all that. But He chose you anyway. He pursues you and wants to give you all the good things He has so you won’t be hungry for fake cheese anymore, so you won’t be thirsty for the well. He doesn’t offer it because you deserve it. He offers it because you were made in His image and He loves you unconditionally. None of us can ever deserve it. Janie, you only have to say yes and take it. The real cheese. The one that will fill you up so you won’t want the fake one anymore.”

And I said, “Give me Jesus. Give me the real cheese. If He wants me, then I’ll go to Him. I have nothing to bring, nothing to give Him, but I’ll go.”

Lord, give me a taste for the real thing. Let me not be satisfied with Satan’s substitutions.

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Read:   Psalm 34, John 4:1-42
Worship:   Contemporary:  Save my Life   https://youtu.be/jGcpNq89IGo
OR Hymn:  Give Me Jesus  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bbh43MGoigw
Meditate:  Is Satan trying to feed you salty, powdery, fake cheese chips? In what way?

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